Im standing outside the flat I havent slept in for months. The keys tremble in my handits drizzling, and my fingers are numb. Streetlight glints in the puddles by the doorstep, and the slushy snow is trampled with boot prints. I pull the door open carefully, trying not to make noise, and the air inside hits mewarm, slightly damp, like someones been airing the place out but the radiators are still blazing.
The hallway smells of laundry and something elseleftover dinner, maybe. I drop my bag by the wall, noticing the shoes are arranged differently than I remember. Her scarf hangs over my coat on the rack. Everythings *almost* in its place, but as I kick off my boots, its clear: this order formed without me. She steps out of the kitchen, offering a tight smile. Says dinner wont take long to heat up. I reply just as carefully. Our voices skim the surface, both of us listeningto each other, to ourselvesafraid to nudge something raw.
The living rooms dim. Outside, the streetlamps paint streaks of light on the walls. She clicks on the desk lamp. I glance around: the books are shelved differently, the windowsill cluttered with new trinkets. My things are stacked on the armchair. I feel both guest and intruder. We sit. She slides a plate of pasta and roasted veg in front of me. We eat in silence, forks scraping ceramic. I want to ask if she missed me, how shes beenbut the words stick. Instead, I ask about work. She mentions a new project, late nights. I nod.
The evening slips by quietly: she washes up; I unpack, unsure where my place is now. She steps out brieflyI hear the kitchen window creak open. The air freshens. Were testing boundaries: whose mug goes where, whose towel hangs where. By bedtime, were on our own sides. The lights click off in unison, a strip of cold air between us.
Morning comes early. Im first to the bathroom, listening to her footsteps outside. The pipes groan as the tap runs. I hurry so she wont wait. In the kitchen, I hunt for teatwo mugs sit out. *Which one?* I ask. «Either,» she says, but theres a tension in it. I make her black tea, mine green. She slides the sugar bowl closer to herself without a word. We eat at the small table by the window. Outside, patchy snow melts into the pavement. I steal glances: her eyes are tired, lips pressed thin.
Later, we bump into each other at the mirror, both hunting for keys. She waits on the landing as I lock up. The lift ride down is silent, just the muffled hum of the street below.
That evening, we trudge to the shop. Our shoes slip on wet pavement. Inside, the fluorescent lights sting. *Whats on the list?* I ask. «Milk, bread, apples, something for tea,» she says. I suggest pasta and cheese. She frowns. «Pastas boring.» We bicker over petty thingshow much milk to buy, whether we need yogurtholding our ground a beat too long.
At checkout, I reach for my wallet first. She pretends to dig for her card. I pay. The awkwardness lingers all the way home.
Back at the flat, we unpack in silence. I leave the bread on the table; she moves it to the counter. Both of us grasping for control where there is none.
That night, I work at the laptop; she reads under a blanket on the sofa. Dusk drags onwe switch the lamps on early. *Any plans for the weekend?* she asks, voice steady but guarded. I hedge, unsure myself.
Dinners a joint effort: she chops veg briskly; I boil potatoes and fry chicken. We avoid eye contact, talking only of food or chores.
At the table, lamplight soft between us, the air thickenswarm and tense all at once.
I notice: she barely touches the chicken, pushes her fork through the sides. I align my cutlery mechanically. Rainor late snowticks against the window.
Suddenly, she sets her fork down. «Can we talk? *Properly*?» My voice shakes worse than my hands as I nod.
«Im scared to start over,» she whispers. «What if I mess up again?»
«Same,» I admit. «Losing you, or not fitting here anymore.»
We talk for hoursabout time apart, unspoken hurts, the fear of rejection, the exhaustion of playing roles even at home, the nights we lay awake wondering.
No accusations. Just honesty about how hard it is to rebuild, how much pains still lodged in us both.
«I want to try,» she says finally. «But if you walk out now, I wont ask you back.»
«Im *here*,» I tell her. «That means I want to stay.»
After, the kitchen feels differentless cold, less foreign. She clears the plates; I rise to help. No asking. Just taking the fork from her, rinsing sauce under the tap. She sets cups down, her fingers brushing my handaccidental or not, I cant tell. Washing up togethers easier than arguing over whose turn it is. I pass her wet plates; she dries them, avoiding my eyes. But the caution that kept us apart all day? Gone.
Later, in the living room, I crack the windowdamp earth scent drifts in. Meltwater and grime streak the sill, but the airs lighter. She curls up with a book; I open my laptop, though works impossible. My thoughts keep circling back to her words at dinner.
Time blurs. One of us murmurs about cold tea or harsh lamplight. Then silence again. And somehow, this quiet *together* feels rightlike theres finally space for both of us, no performances needed.
Before bed, I fetch water from the kitchen. Her footsteps followshe fills the kettle for chamomile. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder at the window, watching raindrops slide down the pane. She pours boiling water into my mug first (the black teas long gone), then hers. We cradle them, warmth seeping into our palms.
In bed, she offers a small smile before turning away. The gap between us remains, but its not a chasm anymore.
Morning arrives gentlythe first clear dawn in weeks. Pale light seeps through the curtains. We wake in unison, listening to drips from the eaves and distant traffic. I reach for my phone, then stop. No rush today.
She rolls onto her side. «Put the kettle on?» Her voice holds no edgejust weariness and something like a smile.
«Sure,» I reply, just as easy.
We pad to the kitchen together. I fill the kettle; she grabs mugs without hesitation, sets the sugar between us like its always been there.
While the water boils, she wipes the tablerain-scent still clingingand I pick tea bags. *Green or black?* My eyes ask. She quirks a lip. «Green today.» I brew both strongno arguing this time.
At the window table, we sit opposite each other. For once, neither chair feels claimed. Outside, the last snow melts fast, droplets drumming the ledge.
Breakfast is near-wordless. I slice bread thinhow she likes it. She takes a whole apple instead of half. Our reflections ghost the window: her face beside mine, and it hits me*this* is what new closeness looks like. A shift too quiet for outsiders to see.
After, she clears her plate swiftly. I linger by the window, listening to the drip-drip, cool air brushing my cheeks. Then her hand rests on my shoulder.
«Thanks.»
For what? Breakfast? Staying? Just this shared morning?
We dont dissect it. Smiles and the fragile new order are enough.
